


Multitude of Sins

by Linden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/pseuds/Linden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every now and again, Jim Murphy would look up from his altar and find the Winchester boys at the back of his church.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title hijacked from 1 Peter 4:8.
> 
> In the chronology of Things I Write, this comes a few months after _Edges_ , and it showed up in my brain because I was re-watching the end of season 1 and remembered that I really liked Jim Murphy. It completely ignores the chronology established in _After School Special_ from season 4.
> 
> The idea of the Bible being fuzzy on the subject of kneecaps is stolen shamelessly from _Firefly_.
> 
> All feedback, positive or negative or anywhere in between, will, as always, be welcomed with a parade, free kittens, and brownies.

**November 1997**

**Blue Earth, MN**

 

Every now and again, Jim Murphy would look up from his altar and find the Winchester boys at the back of his church. 

It didn’t happen all that often, these days. John didn’t come around nearly as frequently as he had when his sons were little, and not at all anymore for holidays; Jim couldn’t remember the last time the Winchesters had been part of the ragtag company that made Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter at the rectory so bright. For that matter, Jim couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen John for anything other than to pass along information about a rakshasha, or rumors of a poltergeist, or a whisper of a true demon; the mornings they’d spent drinking coffee on the rectory’s wide porch while the boys slept upstairs and the town woke slowly around them, or the evenings John had spoken softly, hesitantly, of his plans for his sons once he’d tracked down whatever had killed Mary—well, those were long gone, as was so much else. Over the years Jim had watched, with real grief, as the loving father and gentle man he’d known had forged himself slowly and surely into nothing more than a weapon, sharp-edged, hell-bent on eradicating every last bit of creeping evil that he could find upon this earth. And it’s not as though Jim didn’t think that a worthy goal—taking a stand against evil was, after all, pretty much his stock and trade—but he mourned for his friend all the same. John was so focused on the horror which had befallen his family that Jim suspected he never recognized the very great blessings God had given him in return: two of them, in good boots and worn jeans and old flannel, clear-eyed and unafraid.

The boys were among his congregation this evening, sitting in the corner of the last pew as they always did—Dean looking brash and competent and as startlingly lovely as he’d ever been, Sam still small and bony and slim, tucked in close against his brother’s side, but a little older-looking than Jim remembered, the bones in his face starting to strengthen from sweetness into beauty. John had raised both his boys as irreligious as jackrabbits, but Sam sat and stood and knelt in quiet time with the rest of the congregation, earnest and serious as a priest, eyes steady and respectful on the lector, on the cantor, on Jim; and though Dean spent the vast majority of Mass looking up at the ceiling, his arms stretched out over the back of the pew, he picked his head up as Jim started his homily, and kept it up until he was done, and lifted it again as the lector read out the last of the petitions, which had been a permanent fixture of the Intercessions since Jim had first become pastor here: _For Your daughters and Your sons who hunt evil across the earth, in the shadow and in the light—Lord, hear our prayer._

Jim could hear Sam’s high, sweet treble on the closing hymn, strong and clear and pure.

It was chilly in the narthex by the time Mass ended, the sky outside long since dark and a snowy wind blowing in cold and dry through the doors as they opened and closed, opened and closed, but Jim stood by the threshold to say farewell to his parishioners anyway, shaking hands and exchanging greetings and bending now and again for a hug from someone under four feet tall. John’s boys were the last to file out, each of them with a duffel slung over one shoulder, and Jim felt something twist in his gut, worried and cold. Where in the hell was John?

He smiled, all the same. ‘Sam,’ he said, ‘Dean,’ and pulled each of them into a hug, warm and close. He could feel the bones of Dean’s shoulder blades beneath his shirt as easily as he could his little brother’s, and drew back a little to get a better look at the older boy’s face: beautiful as always, yes, but tired, and beneath two days’ worth of stubble it seemed a little pale.  It was only by effort that Jim didn’t put a hand to his forehead to check for fever, as he would have when Dean had been a little boy.  _Something’s wrong_. ‘So good to see you boys,’ he said, smiling, because yes, something clearly was wrong, at least with Dean, but a question like ‘what the hell happened?’ was never a good opening conversational gambit with hunters, particularly when their last name was Winchester. ‘Can I tempt you up to the rectory for supper, I hope?’ he asked. ‘I’m pretty sure Marjorie was making pie this afternoon when I left.’

Sam’s face brightened, and Dean's mouth curved to a relieved, weary smile. 'Supper would be awesome, sir, thanks,' he replied. He turned his head to cough, once, dry and deep and from his chest, and everything in Jim that had four years experience in combat medicine and, more importantly, seventeen in Christmas concerts with parochial school children tightened at the sound. _Flu_ , he thought, as Sam threw him a quick, anxious glance, lower lip caught between his teeth. The younger boy had his fingers tangled in the hem of his brother's shirt, clutching at him the way he'd used to when both of them were children; Jim wasn't certain either of them was even aware of it. _Pneumonia, if he’s not lucky. Where in the hell is John?_

'You need help closin' up shop down here first, Padre?' Dean asked, as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and turned back to him.

Jim was fairly certain that his cell phone was in the vestry, and that Eileen O’Connell’s number was on it. 'Just give me a few minutes to get changed,' he said, and gave Sam's bony shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he went past. 'We'll go up together.'

***

Marjorie Hummer, the rectory housekeeper, was a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes, a sharp tongue, and four teenage sons of her own, and she greeted the Winchesters with delight and Jim with a scolding as they came in through the kitchen several minutes later, stamping snow from their boots. ('Father, you didn't tell me they were _coming_!' she said, as she pulled Dean down by his ears to kiss his cheek and snugged Sam into her side. 'I would've made apple pie instead of cherry, sweethearts.') She directed all three of them to the hooks in the corner to get rid of their coats and then she shooed them into the dining room and promised supper in ten minutes, and it was only after warm buttered rolls and hot apple cider, and pork chops and potatoes and green beans-with-almonds, and cups of hot coffee and warm cherry pie, that Jim got Dean to tell him what had happened.

‘Dad left to hunt a banshee in Connecticut in September,’ he said, quietly, looking down into his coffee cup.  Sam was in the kitchen, helping Marjorie do the dishes and put up two plates for Łucjan and Andrew, still on call at the hospital. Dean still had half a piece of pie on his plate, which told Jim all he needed to know about how the boy was feeling. ‘He was supposed to be back four weeks ago. We haven’t heard from him in five.’

Five weeks wasn't all that long to be off the radar—six months was, generally, when most folks started assuming the worst—but then most folks didn't have two sons waiting by a phone for them to call.

'S not all that long, I know,' Dean said. ‘And his phone’s still charged; he doesn’t answer, but it rings and goes through to voicemail, so somebody’s keepin’ it plugged in. And I’m not—I mean, I’m worried about him, obviously, but sometimes he just _does_ this, so it’s not . . . it’s just that our money ran out, about three weeks back.’ He sighed. ‘When we’re near a city I can usually just pick up a crap job for a few weeks, washin’ dishes or somethin’, just long enough to tide us over, but East Bumfuck, West Virginia? Had nothin’. Seriously, nothin’. Dad left us a Visa for emergencies, but it was already over the limit by the third time I tried to use it for groceries, and we didn’t . . .’ He rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘I got picked up last night doing somethin’ stupid,’ he said, quietly. He didn’t volunteer more than that, and Jim didn’t ask. ‘Busted out of the station after midnight, grabbed Sam, boosted a car. We ditched it near the municipal airport and walked in on Ramsey.’ He looked up at Jim across the table. ‘It’s not like there’s a manhunt out for me,’ he said. ‘There’s probably not even an APB out for me, sir, but I don’t—I’m not tryin’ to bring you any trouble. So it’s okay if I can’t stay, but if you could please just let Sammy—’

‘You boys going to mind sharing?’ he asked, calmly, sipping at his coffee.  ‘We’ve got a priest visiting from Poland until after the holidays, so we’ve only one other room free, just now.  But we can set one of you up here in the living room if you’d rather, no problem at all.’

He didn’t realize how carefully Dean had been holding himself until he watched the tension in his jaw and shoulders bleed out all at once.  It left him looking suddenly far younger than his eighteen years, and like he needed about thirty hours of sleep.  ‘Course we won’t mind, sir.’

‘You can get yourselves settled in upstairs later, then,’ Jim said.  ‘I’ll give the principal at Davis a call on Monday, see about getting the two of you enrolled later this coming week.’

Dean looked at him, unhappy. ‘We don’t have Sammy’s records from Wes—’

Jim was shaking his head. ‘Leila’s mother was a hunter, Dean. She’ll make do with whatever you’ve got, and she’ll be happy to do it.’ He looked at him for a moment, curiously, as Dean’s words caught up with him. ‘Though it’s just Sam’s last transcripts you don’t have?’

‘Yeah. I, uh—’ Dean scrubbed a hand across his short hair. ‘I dropped out awhile ago, sir; I don’t . . . just not enough time, you know?’ He quirked a smile at him. ‘Was never much good at school stuff anyway.’

Jim strongly suspected that Dean had never been ‘much good at school stuff’ because his father had never given him the time or the opportunity to try, but he held his tongue.  Dean opened his mouth to say something, turned his head to cough instead, couldn’t stop once he’d started.  Jim went to the sideboard and rummaged out a bottle of apricot brandy from the back, poured a measure into Dean’s empty coffee cup. Dean tossed it back without looking, winced, sat quietly for a moment, head tilted back, eyes closed. Then, ‘That is _foul_ ,’ he finally managed.

'You'll be missing it when you're chugging Cheratussin later, believe me.' Jim tucked the small bottle back where it belonged. 'How long have you had that cough?'

Dean shrugged. 'Wasn't feelin' all that great in Lost Creek past couple of days. Didn't start tryin' to cough up a lung until Davenport. We had cough medicine in the car; it just . . . ran out, this evening, about half an hour before we hit the airport.' He sighed. 'Wouldn't have been so bad if we hadn't had to walk, but I wanted to ditch the car, and the cold air kinda . . . I scared the shit out of Sammy. But he remembered that we had some of Dad's whiskey in my duffel, and a couple shots of that helped, a lot. And it was warm in the church.'

 _A couple shots of that_ , Jim thought, thinking of Dean’s steady steps, his clear eyes, and tried not to worry that the boy could hold hard liquor better than most grown men he knew. 'I called Dr. O’Connell before we left the church this morning,' he told him. Seventy-three years old, straight-backed, white-haired, Eileen had been dealing with both recalcitrant children and stubborn hunters for most of her medical career, and she had a soft spot for the Winchester boys sixteen miles wide. 'She told me to call after we had dinner. She’s going to meet us over at her clinic.'

Jim expected an argument, was fully prepared to fight dirty and get Sam involved, but after a moment's mutinous silence Dean just scrubbed both hands over his face and nodded, once, wearily. Jim felt something tighten painfully in his gut. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen John's boy sick and at the end of his rope, and even then, he'd never seen him quite as exhausted as this. 'Yeah all right,’ Dean said, and he sounded tired, so very tired. ‘Though you think she could take a look at Sammy, too?’ he asked, looking up.  ‘He’s all right, not sick or anything; I had the money to get him a flu shot a last month in Florida, but it’s been like two years since he had a check-up, and it’s—I meant to take him this past summer; we just never made it.’

Jim’s heart clenched, just a little, at the earnest, weary worry in Dean’s face. _Take care of Sammy_ , he’d heard John tell him God only knew how many times, _keep an eye on Sammy, watch out for Sammy_ , and by now Dean had adopted that command as both his north star and religion.

‘I’m sure she will,’ he said aloud, then nodded toward the kitchen.  ‘Grab your coat, okay? And your brother. I’ll get the car started in the garage.’

*** 

They were back in an hour—Sam clutching worriedly at the careful notes he’d taken on fluids and food and rest; Dean diagnosed with the flu and dosed with cough medicine and under strict instructions to lie down somewhere warm and quiet and stay there for awhile. Jim left him to Sam to wrangle into pyjamas and bed, went out again to fill his script at the pharmacy.  He came home maybe forty minutes later to Łucjan and Andrew finishing up their dinners in the front of the living room TV and Marjorie chopping chicken breasts in the kitchen, with considerably more vehemence than Jim felt the cutting of dead animal flesh generally required.  Carrots and peas and potatoes were bubbling gently in a pot on the stove, and in the kitchen there was a faint, lingering sweetness that smelled like butterscotch.

'Remind me,' she said, without turning, 'why we've never called CPS.'

Jim put the bottle of cough medicine on the counter, dropped tiredly into a chair at the table.  ‘Because it wouldn't have done anyone any good, the boys included,' he said. 'And because they would never have come to us when they needed help again.'

She dumped the cubed chicken into the big pot with the veggies, put the cover on with a rattle and a thump. 'Then remind me why we don't shoot their father in the goddamn kneecaps. Bible's a bit fuzzy on the subject of kneecaps, isn't it? I could make a good case to St. Peter.'

 Jim scrubbed his hands across his face, through his hair.  ‘Marji—’

‘Don’t you Marji me.’  She pulled a bag of flour and some spices and her measuring cups from the cabinet overhead. 'Man should be ashamed of himself, the way he treats those boys.’

Jim said nothing. He'd seen the new scars on Dean's hands— _ifrit,_  the boy had said, with an easy shrug;  _didn't move fast enough_ —and the utter exhaustion in Sam's eyes, and so it’s not as though he had much to offer in his old friend's defense.  But Marjorie had never known the wide-eyed, sweet-souled boy who’d served on the front lines at thung lũng A Sầu, or who'd married a fierce beautiful girl in summer sunlight, or who'd prayed so devoutly at the baptism of both his sons; Jim had, and he loved him still, no matter the faults of the heart-scarred man he’d become.  ‘You know what he’s been through,’ he said finally, quietly.

‘I know he’s not the only person in this world who’s ever lost a spouse, Jim, is what I know,’ she replied.  ‘You think I never wanted to go after the drunk son of a bitch that killed my Fionn?  Hmm? But what would our boys have done, if I had?’ She went to the refrigerator, came back with butter and onions and celery and milk.  ‘If John’s Mary had died before they’d ever had children, I’d have nothing but sympathy for the man, but this . . .’ She shook her head, mouth tight, and had the butter bubbling gently on the stove and the onions chopped and sizzling in it a moment later, hands steady and quick and sure.  ‘He’s a father,’ she said, finally. ‘He’s a father and his boys need him, and he’s too busy off saving other people’s children to ever pay attention to his own.  I don’t care what he’s been through.  He doesn’t get a pass on that.’  The celery followed the onions, landed in the skillet with a splatter and a _hisssssssss_. ‘Dean is so sick he can barely stand up, for the love of God and Jesus. Sam is exhausted past the point of speech, neither of them is in any condition to have been driving to the gas station down the damn _block_ , and they had to drive halfway across the country because John couldn’t be bothered to _pick up his—_ I’m sorry,’ she said, tiredly, and sighed.  ‘I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to shout.’

Jim quirked a smile at her. “Raise your voice like a trumpet,’ he quoted from Isaiah, lightly, ‘and declare to My people their transgression, and to the house of Jacob their sins.”

‘Yes, well, if John Winchester were here right now I’d declare his transgression with my fist to his nose. He's . . . ' She sighed, shook her head again, stirred for awhile at the onions and butter and celery on the stove without speaking. Jim waited, patiently. Then: 'We take those boys in like stray cats,' she said, a few long minutes later, and the anger had bled out of her voice, leaving behind only a helpless, weary sadness. 'We take them in like stray cats, and then we feed them and patch them up and send them on their way with that madman again, and it's not . . . there's nothing else we can do, and I know that; I do, truly, but that doesn't help me sleep at night. John's not a good man, Jim. He's a man who does good, I'll give him that, but he's not a good man. And he's a crap father, to boot.'

Jim stayed silent, searching for words, because it's not as though Marjorie were wrong. John _was_ a crap father, clearly; the illness and exhaustion of his sons were proof enough of that, but Jim knew he was trying, so hard, to be a good one, knew John was certain that in hunting the way he did he was in fact doing right by his boys, that they were safer without a home, that they were safer knowing the truth about the dark, that if he killed just one more monster, burned one more bag of bones, found that one last clue to lead him to whatever sliver of darkness had burned Mary alive above Sam's cradle, they would _be_ safe, forever.

' . . . he does love them, Marji, dearly,' Jim finally replied, because it was as true and sad a thing as he had ever known. 'You know that. You've _seen_ that.'

Marjorie snorted, indelicately, as she added milk and flour to the pan. ‘You remember your New Testament, Father?’ she asked.  ‘Peter’s first letter to the folks in the Roman provinces?  ‘Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins." She was silent a moment, then: 'Only a multitude, Jim,’ she said, softly.  ‘Not all.'


	2. Chapter 2

It was an hour before Marjorie went home, the fridge stocked with a butterscotch pie and chicken pot pie and baked mac-and-cheese for Sam and Dean for tomorrow; Jim was given to understand that he and Andrew and Łucjan were allowed leftovers, if there were any, but that they were mostly expected to make do with sandwiches and whatever they themselves felt like cooking until Marjorie came back on Monday, and that Sam was to be given first crack at the salad anytime they sat down for a meal.

Jim went up to check on the boys before he turned in. He didn't bother with the light at the top of the stairs, just padded quietly down to the end of the hall, footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet. The door to the guest room was half-open, a nightlight burning soft and dim just inside. In its glow he could see both of the boys tucked up beneath a warm pile of quilts in one of the old brass beds, Sam asleep on Dean's chest, dark head tucked beneath his chin, both of them looking for once not like hunters, tight and guarded with the promise of trained, deadly violence simmering just beneath their skin, but simply like the exhausted boys they were. Nostalgia unfurled in a ribbon of affectionate warmth through Jim's chest; for a moment, he could still see in them the dark-haired moppets who'd slept a winter here in that same warm, easy tangle of limbs, nearly ten years past.

Caught up as he was in the memories of the little boys who'd filled his rectory with sweetness and laughter, it wasn't until later, as he was drifting off to sleep in his own room, with his radio on low and tree branches tapping gently against his windows in the wind, that it occurred to Jim to wonder why they were still sleeping in a single bed.

***

The boys always had been close, he reasoned, uneasily, in the weeks that followed.

And they had been, truly, ever since Jim had first met them, when Sam had still been small enough to toss in the air and carry on one hip: always together, usually touching, Sam snuggling into his brother's side whenever he wanted company or comfort, Dean rarely more than three feet distant, either waking or asleep. Back then Jim had never given it a second thought, but here in Blue Earth, as rest and Marjorie's cooking slowly got Dean back on his feet, and as Sam started up at the parish school with borrowed books and a secondhand uniform, Jim watched them with a sense of growing disquiet. His own nephews, at twelve and fourteen, had long since declared that anything other than a football tackle counted as a cuddle and was therefore to be avoided at all costs, but Sam still thought nothing of nestling under Dean's arm when the two of them watched TV in the evenings, or of hooking a foot around Dean's ankle as they sat at the kitchen table at breakfast, and Dean forever had an idle hand in his brother's hair, or on his shoulder, or cupped around the back of his neck, and in his touch was the same sort of tender reverence Jim was used to seeing in Andrew when he handled the chalice of Christ's consecrated blood at Mass, or in his elderly parishioners as they cupped the Eucharist in their worn palms at communion. And the way he looked at his little brother sometimes, like Sam was the only thing worth seeing in the world, it . . .

Jim had fallen in love, once, six months before he swore his final vows, with a young widow in his parish in Indiana.

He recognized the signs.

He wondered if John knew.

He watched Sam and Dean toss a football around in the yard with Marjorie's sons after a merry, crowded Thanksgiving, Sam laughing beneath the Gryffindor cap Marjorie had knitted him, Dean flushed with the cold of the grey afternoon air, and worried.

***

It was a few days before Christmas when Jim finally came home from the hospice one afternoon to a silent, empty house. Dean had left him and Marjorie both a hurried, heartfelt note on the kitchen counter ( _Dad's here; hunt in California; thank you for everything and especially the pie_ ); Sam had left his precise, spiky signature beneath his brother's, and his textbooks piled neatly on the table, and his uniform pants and shirts and blazer and tie folded neatly on the guest room bed upstairs.

John had left nothing, only taken his sons.

Jim sat in the living room for a long while in silence, watching the snow come down outside. The lights on the Christmas tree the boys had put up two weeks ago flickered, softly, in the gloom.

***

Later that night, unable to sleep, he went downstairs in his tee shirt and sleep pants to the rectory's small chapel, all dark wood and thick carpet and stone. Barefoot, he lit two candles near the altar, and the wicks flared up small and bright.

He prayed a rosary there in the dark, breathing in the scent of sandalwood and beeswax and myrrh, smooth wooden beads clicking through his fingers rhythmic and slow. He stayed on his knees for awhile when he was done, elbows braced against the altar rail, eyes closed, heart weary and worried in his chest. He felt . . . lost, somehow, and also tired and old, and the familiar comfort he always took from prayer seemed small tonight, nothing more than a tiny spark in a vast and echoing dark.

He looked up at the statue of the saint from whom his church took its name, set in an alcove in the north wall: captain of the Host, warrior of God, patron saint of soldiers. The medallion at Jim's throat, which had seen him safely through the war and home again, bore the same image: Michael with his wings outspread, his sword aloft, Lucifer's neck beneath his heel.

'Watch over them,' he prayed, softly, and leaned to blow the candles dark.

Outside, the storm winds roared, deep and long and low.


End file.
